


Clinking Sound of Hell

by Aliada



Category: StartUp (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-24 05:45:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8359468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aliada/pseuds/Aliada
Summary: He liked her skin. It felt soft and warm, as if she was covered in some sort of blanket. Blood blanket, he realized abruptly. Blood was always warm. In his veins, it might even be heated.





	1. His Coffee Smells Miami

**Author's Note:**

> AU. Maddie survives. 
> 
> A big thank you to WillowGrove for her constant support and inspiration. This fandom wouldn't be the same without you!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of StartUp. They are the property of their creators. No infringement intended.

 

He liked her skin. It felt soft and warm, as if she was covered in some sort of blanket. Blood blanket, he realized abruptly. Blood was always warm. In his veins, it might even be heated.

Phil reached her lips. Intense desire to taste kicked in. His tongue touched his teeth. Maddie made a terrified sound.

_Maddie._

Short stab of pain burnt his mouth. Not her name. _Not her name._

Air in his lungs felt heavy and motionless - like first drops of boiling water into thick, muddy coffee.

He couldn’t breathe, but he could feel. The liquid fell in rhythmic, almost meticulous motions unfolding rich flavor. It touched his nostrils tickling them, making a grim promise of pounding heart and terrifying clarity.

It squeezed the air around him, squeezed his insides sending a piercing impulse of pleasure.

Maddie made one more sound, but he couldn’t recognize the emotions in it. There was only one thing he was sure about. The fear.

She was scared all right. Who wouldn’t? Phil’s inner voice gave out a humorless chuckle followed by some hoarse whispers he didn’t even want to decipher.

The fear.

_“I don’t want to mess it up.”_

 Yes, he didn’t want to, either, but wants rarely mattered. Not in the world they existed, anyway.

_“Please, look at me.”_

He was looking at her, wasn’t he? Her eyes. Her dilated pupils. They had to match his own now. And it would be right. By the book, they’d say.

In the shit – together. It almost sounded romantic, but he doubted that Maddie would appreciate the sentiment.

The air lightened, and his head went numb with a sudden realization.

The pain.

_“I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”_

Just one more step into the dead-end mess. Would someone believe him? He wasn’t even sure he believed himself.

How could he when she was chocking with his fingers around her neck?

The lights went out, blinding him with agonizing, inescapable darkness.

The murder.

The chocking sensation left his lungs, and his fingers lost their grip.

He pushed himself away, something overwhelming deep within his chest.

It could have been terror. Or shock. Or some false shell of relief with nauseating feeling in his stomach.

His throat contracted. Damn gag reflex. The last thing he needed now is to deal with his body. His mind had enough problems as it was.

Two violent shakes later, his stomach was empty.

He felt drops of sweat on his face – cool and heavy.

Weakening relief washed all over him. At least, his body was still honest. In the world of deceptions, it was almost a miracle.

Illusions. Fake words behind honest faces. Sometimes, a lie was so damn hard to crack. But that was how he earned his living, wasn’t it? Cracking lies. Learning how to make them more believable.

He had to know that ‘a little dirty’ never stayed ‘little’ – it grew, expanded, until there was no single cell left. No single excuse.

Just like he had no single excuse for blood on Maddie’s body. For blind fear in her eyes.

No single fucking excuse.

The inner struggle seemed to shake his whole body – just a desperate attempt to leave it behind, to make it disappear.

“That wasn’t me. That was someone else.”

_Pathetic._

Phil told the damn voice to shut up and squeezed his knee. Hard.

He felt like a little boy who believed that if he was closing his eyes long enough, the monster under the bed would disappear.

But little boys grew up and found out that it never actually happened. The monsters didn’t disappear. They transformed.

And one of them was sitting inside him now – using his voice, his mind, his heart.

Something stabbed him in the chest with a pang of melting regret. It reminded him of resin – black and ruthless, drowning everything around him and leaving him to watch.

The fear. The pain. The murder.

“You took me there with you”, she coughed convulsively, her voice high-pitched and breathless. “In your hell.”

Phil took a deep breath, as if mirroring her, reflecting cloudy tension into her eyes and dissolving it into torn pieces.

His gaze flicked to the knife on the floor. Fucking Daewon.

He knew her motions before he saw them. The training was good, after all. But _good_ was never enough, as he later discovered.

Falling knife gave a clinking sound, resounding in his ears with a blunt music of finality.

His fingers around her wrists – squeezing and hurting, turning her into wild, unknown creature.

She would fight. She would fight to the end.

And so would he. Even if insanity couldn’t be understood, it damn sure could be shared.

He was never one for sharing, but in this case, he didn’t particularly mind.

“Do you want me to go to hell for real? Is that what you want to happen?”

He squeezed harder taking in her pained cry.

That was it. That was fucking it.

Her eyes closed, and she made a weak, pleading sound.

His stomach turned from a violent desire to kiss. Instead, he released her not taking his eyes off her face.

Never underestimate someone who tried to kill you.

Insanity may not be fire, but playing with it could lead to something far more dangerous than a burn.

Phil saw those flames in the mirror every morning; felt them on his skin, getting closer with every hungry movement.

He could never let them go. Letting go of her neck was almost equally hard, but he managed. And that alone would allow him sleep at night. For now.

His thoughts disappeared and turned into a still jelly.

Her body went limp. He heard himself swear, but it was half-hearted. Empty. Deprived of something he couldn’t even remember.

She was heavy and warm. Her fingers gripped his shirt making small wrinkles.

Her head touched his, and he felt a tiny drop of blood landing on his temple.

The hard wall wasn’t a perfect thing to lean onto, but it was solid – and solid meant good.

His stomach gave one more growl, this time demanding food. Food was solid, too.

Maddie groaned quietly.

“Yes, there is nothing I want more right now,” she whispered lifting her head a little. Her eyelids shivered, and her fingers clenched making a fist.

“Just go to hell. Go and never come back.”

Phil touched her hair lightly. It was dirty, coated with dried blood but soft. Still soft. Her perfume made her smell neutral, almost official – God, he fucking hated this word. But now… now she smelt Miami, she smelt reality. _His_ reality.

“I can’t. I’m already there, remember?”

She let out a soft, breathless sound, which reminded him of laughter.

But it wasn’t laughter – couldn’t have been.

“God, I hate you so much.”

Phil touched her ear with his lips – slowly, wordlessly, making sure she would listen.

She shivered but stayed still. _Too_ still.

Her hand unclenched – just the moment before it was stuck in his grip.

“No, Maddie. No more fucking tricks, do you hear me? No more.”

She sighed jerkily.

Her skin. Raw. Traced with angry lilac. Vulnerable.

He took a moment to look before pulling away.

Knife in his hand felt surprisingly natural. Right. It wasn’t as sharp as you’d expect a weapon to be. But it wasn’t one, either. Just one bloody toy for domestic power plays, simple to the point of being dull.

The more mess, the more problems. Wasn’t that the golden rule?

He didn’t even use this fucking thing. It just lay there waiting for its moment to come. Wasn’t that the thing about everything, after all? Just waiting in some corner to be picked up and dusted off. Sometimes, those corners came in together, and then… then the real game started.

Maddie gasped and tried to move.

It was a nice blade, though. Shiny and edgy.

The holder was a bit warm, and it made his hand sweat.

Maddie’s eyes widened.

It wasn’t even about damn money or power. It was about success. His sweet, intoxicating beverage which he could never give up.

He liked his coffee, but this… this was something else entirely.

His thoughts shattered and melted into flavored liquid that made its way through his body.

Maddie let out a piercing cry.


	2. Boiling Blue with a Hint of Dryness

Maddie's POV

She woke up to the terrifying, clinking sound, which sent her flying backwards – towards carved, carefully painted memories in her mind.

She remembered two colors: unyielding blue and dim yellow. It reminded her of her silk, indecently comfortable shirt she used to wear only on special occasions. She thought of wearing it for Phil. In her previous life, it seemed now. In some nice, stupidly naive future with kisses and promises she could never have.

Miami was never nice. Always noticing. Always ready to kill.

Its hot, heavy air was a pleasant change from furious winters – used to be pleasant, until she started to choke with her own vomit. Until her body turned into stiff, lifeless mass of melting bones and crushed realities. She used to have a lot of them crawling inside her head. And now… now they all were dead and their corpses blurred her vision.

She should be seeing red, but instead, she saw nothing but blue.

Expressive, boiling blue, drilling into her soul to leave nothing behind.

_Just blue._

***

Phil's POV

He made himself a breakfast. Bitter taste exploded in his mouth making him wince. He took a gulp of cold water trying to wash it down. His throat contracted cutting off the air. One swallowing motion later, the burning seemed to spread all over his body. It was in his head. In his chest. In his stomach.

Glass blinked reflecting a piercing ray of sunshine. Almost blinding. Almost saving him from the chaos of never-ending, stinging thoughts. They reminded him of pain – sometimes sharp, sometimes dull, mixing into wild sandstorm that filled his eyes and ears, leaving him deaf and _unseeing_. Blind seemed so much better, so much _brighter_ in comparison.

Phil shook his head and took one more gulp of water. As if he had nothing better to do than to think about some poetic shit. He didn’t even read poetry. Never have. Just some occasional crime novel here and there to keep the mind busy. Now, that his own life turned into “how-to-fuck-everything-up” bestseller, he didn’t need those anymore.

And now it was time to have his perfect story polished off.

Half-burnt beacon made a crackling sound, and Phil felt his mouth water. The burning was gone giving way to the salty, juicy taste with a hint of remaining dryness.

But wasn’t everything a bit dry In this world? His face sure felt dry – and so did his muted, stifled emotions. He didn’t hear his voice, not even his inner voice.

Water felt nice. It started to warm up, so he took a few more sips to make up for that. Making up for some things wasn’t so bad. His lips quivered in a nervous, nearly tearing manner, and he made a fist, digging his nails into unfeeling skin. It _was_ feeling now. Physical pain was refreshing. It opened him. It helped him to let something out – something he didn’t even know existed. He didn’t want to look at it, didn’t want to analyze it. He just wanted it to stop.

_Had to stop it._

The last drops at the bottom of the glass looked terrifyingly _final_. He saw them rolling down, one by one. Slowly. Mercilessly.

His lips opened touching and taking in. It wasn’t cool anymore.

***

Maddie's POV

She remembered his tightening fingers on her skin. It was painful. It _hurt_.

Also, it was so damn appropriate. It _fit_.

The blue flashed in her mind once again, leaving her with a bunch of overwhelming sensations.

His blue wasn’t gentle touches on her face.

His blue wasn’t handing her steaming coffee.

His blue wasn’t a pleasant burn in her throat from ‘not-fancy’ fancy rum.

His blue was pain.

She was between those shades of this pain – screaming and begging to let go.

She wondered, if he was screaming as well. If his blue was turning into red. If he was feeling it.

She wanted him to feel it. She wanted to double his sensations, and then, make sure he heard every damn word; wanted to see his eyes widen and become what they really were – dark, twisted shadows of insanity.

Something gloomy turned into her chest, exploding into agonizing images of lightened, sky-like blue. _Wrong_ kind of blue, one she so desperately wanted to forget.

A sudden stab of regret almost tuned out the physical pain, turning it into a background noise.

Her eyes watered.              

She clenched her fingers and tried to move. She could feel warm, heavy drops of blood dripping down her temple.

She turned her head and listened to her own screams.

Quick footsteps made her stop for a moment.

His blue didn’t turn into red. No. Instead, it was the bluest color she had ever seen.

She screamed once again and watched him come closer.

Closer than her fears.

Closer than mad desperation tearing her up inside.

And yet, it didn’t seem enough still.


	3. Burnt Seeds of Hatred

Maddie held out her hand and flinched when grip on her wrist reminded her of the very similar picture in the past. She could feel his presence. His uncertainty.

It was so right and so wrong at the same time. She wanted to separate her thoughts, make them return to where they came from, but she couldn’t.

The sound of torn paper. Pain. Blood on her fingers.

She was dreaming of too many things now. Twisted, dark things, trapped into her mind, reflecting themselves over and over again, until all she could hope for was a brief glimpse of clarity. Clarity she no longer possessed.

Sensations mixed up leaving her confused and breathless.

His grip. It wasn’t hard enough. It wasn’t causing her pain.

_No pain._

She lifted her eyes and tried to find blue.

It was there. Frightened. Shaken. Filled with heaviness which reminded her of rainy, dangerous clouds she used to love as a child.

Lightening never spooked her for some reason. On the contrary, she admired it. Piercing fire through the sky. Breathtaking sense of some unknown magic.

Water touched her lips and she tried to make her tongue work. It was dry and tasted bad. She made it move, though. Her lips were dry as well.

She opened them, just a little, and took a taste of warm, disgusting water, it felt mellow in her mouth. Felt like a burn – not acute and ruthless, but one with foggy, merciful edges.  

She made herself swallow. Her stomach let out a sound, and she closed her eyes fighting nausea that threatened to overcome her whole body.

_Choking_. It also felt like choking.

She squeezed the opaque glass in her hand, and her vision turned yellow for a moment. _Warm_ yellow.

“Stop it.”

Phil gave her an alarmed look.

She tilted the glass, just enough for the liquid to flicker, then met his eyes.

One fucking thing she could do. One fucking solution to stay sane in this mess.

One drop fell on the floor, leaving a wet trace. Maddie smiled and squeezed the glass harder.

“Stop it, Phil. Stop choking me.”

Her voice rang with tension.

Phil’s expression was almost confused. He took a step back and lifted a hand.

“Just take it easy.”

Maddie felt burn in her eyes. She needed some pain now, something sharp or dull – it didn’t really matter. Distraction was the only thing that mattered.

“Do you think I’m going to throw it at you?”

Her voice sounded weak. Not right. As if she should be shouting instead. Fulfilling it to the end.

A hint of irony appeared on Phil’s face quickly turning back into steep caution.

“Let’s calm down, Maddie.”

“I’d never warn you if I was going to do that.”

This time irony reshaped into a prickle of irritation. Phil smiled and came closer not taking his eyes off hers.

“Sure. You didn’t do it last time, did you?”

He was breathing heavily but made no sudden moves. _For now_.

Apparently, this time it was _her_ turn to be cautious.

Anger went through her, almost matching one on Phil’s face. She sent him a hateful look and made herself stand straighter.

Her fingers hurt to the point of being unbearable. Her whole body did.

Maybe that’s why she didn’t hit right away. Maybe that’s why…

“Drink this fucking water, Maddie.”

His growling whisper stuttered and broke off when water hit his face, leaving cool, tiny droplets.

This time, pain was there, and so was the boiling blue.

She felt herself go mad. It wasn’t in those pushes inside her chest. Not even in her hitched breath.

It was in realization. In that damn piece of consciousness that kept coming to her in brief, overwhelming flashes.

His growl wasn’t whispery now.

“Now I’ll go and bring you some more water. And you’ll _drink_ it this time. Got it?”

The grip on her hand could almost be threatening.

She made herself not to care.

“Sure. But the moment you turn away, _this_ ,” she made a jerky nod towards the empty glass, “will be flying into your head.”

Phil looked as if he could barely contain the laughter.

His lips touched her ear.

“No warnings when you’re to stir some shit, remember?”

She felt cold crawling down her spine while her emotions rapidly turned into fire.

Fire she couldn’t hold back, not in the way Phil did.

She could see the effort in his eyes, could feel it in convulsing fingers on her shoulder.

They must be hurting as much as hers were.

And _will_ be hurting more still.

She made herself do the weary smile, her eyes travelling to the piece of metal on her ankle. As if she needed a damn reminder.  

Casting eyes down was even easier than she imagined.

She exhaled slowly.

He was saying something to her, but she didn’t listen. No more contact. No more delays. She had an advantage on her side, and it was good.

She relaxed her fingers a little, just enough for the tension to melt away. She didn’t have to look at it to know.

In her mind, it was already shattered. It _had_ to be.

There was one nice thing with logic: It never failed. All she had to do was prove it.

And then… then she was going to kill him.


	4. Grass to Never be Mown. Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first part, which specifically deals with some aspects from Maddie's past. The second one will be more action-based.
> 
> All the dialect-related references are taken from this resource: http://www.alphadictionary.com/articles/southernese.html

_Each blade of grass is a soul, sprouting up with a story_

_–_ Janis Thompson _, Parallel Universe_

 

Grass was wet. Dewy. Tiny drops were trembling and shiny, and she couldn’t help but think that nothing she had ever seen reflected the light better.

No traces of soil. No slime. Just fresh, fragile touch of something full, brimming with quivering energy, ready to burst and get sucked in without any hint of recorded existence.

Something in _here_ , in _today_. In _now_.

Something that gets lost and never comes back.

It was like this every May, every dawn she could remember and every sunset she couldn’t forget.

Tangled tufts, thin but lush – crumpled under her hand, just enough to give off a subtle breathy smell of what she used to call _home_.

She would unclench her slightly aching fingers and get up feeling cool traces of juice on her hands.

Then she would go back – overwhelmed and happy, almost dizzy with lilac-scented air in her lungs. Crusty, carefully sliced cornbread would already be there, making her senses sharp and edgy with familiar yeasty scent, as if buttered with calming lardy undertones. It always smelled _yellow_ to her.

She would chew on it, keep it in her mouth until it melted and then close her eyes.

She closed her eyes now, but it wasn’t the home she saw. It was _him_ instead. Cautiously taking a piece, smirking at her with the grin in a thousand meanings, pouring them some wine to wash it down with.

Wine was never light. It left a burn in her throat and mist in her head.

It made her want _more_. And more was never good.

Yellow sparkled behind her eyes turning her spring into autumn.

Her autumn, covered in a prickly scarf and stream of purple leaves on her porch.

She always used to take that scarf with her when she went out for long walks.

“Fur yarn for fur piece*,” her mother used to tell her, smiling in her usual warm, adventurous way.

Maddie saw no smiles anymore. Remembered none of them.

The fur was almost suffocating on her throat but it looked beautiful.

She made her stiff hand move and reached her neck. It felt so much more natural this way – without his fingers there squeezing the breath out of her.

A stab of pain shot through her shoulder and she moaned.

Rest. She just needed some rest.

It seemed like she closed her eyes for about a couple of seconds, but in reality she didn’t know how much time has passed.

Her dreams were blank, colorless. She remembered touching the grass but she couldn’t see the color.

It was dry, though – as if parched. She would just lay on it, motionless and maybe even not breathing.

Her fingers would grasp on something convulsively and then let go leaving nothing but lingering disappointment.

Too soft. Too strange.

***

_“What did she say then?”_

_“Hope to make the blue still.”_

_“And what did you do?”_

_“I laughed.”_

**_***_ **

Yes, he did. That awful laugh she smiled at so many times. One that she always carried with her, one that poured out of her triggering her worst nightmares.

This time, she couldn’t resist either. So she smiled.  

They questioned him, wanted him to confess. And _still_ , he could laugh.

She grasped on the soft thing again squeezing it with sudden anger.

What were the questions? Where were they? She could only hear those four annoying lines stuck in her head like a cheap broken record. It didn’t break the words, though. It kept them together – clear and loud, with every resounding syllable ticking on the end of her tongue.

Maybe she repeated them as well – it didn’t really bother her. What did, though, is that her voice _fit_ , just like a lost puzzle piece hastily remembered in the end.

She opened her eyes. The thing under her hand made so much more sense now.

She inhaled and realized that she’s afraid to release her breath.

And fear didn’t make her bold this time.

 

* wordplay, in southern dialects, "fur piece" - great distance 


	5. Grass to Never be Mown. Part II

The thick, canary blanket wrinkled and fell on the floor. She brushed it with her finger and felt a prickle of shiver run through her body.

She half-expected to wake up with a knife in her body, not with some ridiculously-looking piece of fabric covering it. Not with _this…_

_ *** _

_ “So, what was the very first question?” _

_ “How do you know there was one?” _

_ “I don’t. But you do.” _

_ Her past-self smiled as if she knew what was going on. Phil didn’t smile back. _

_ “It’s ‘hope’, Maddie*. You told me yourself. Two meanings. Two possible solutions. You could have chosen any phrase where there would be only one, but you decided to play a game. So – how does it feel? Hmm? Got a lot of kicks from it?” _

_ “Only to remind you, Phil. Just that. That’s how it works. I hoped to get in, and you helped me. Got me in your mess. You see – hope and help, it’s all here. It’s equal for us.” _

_ *** _

“Take it away.”

Her voice seemed dead even to her.

“You’re cold.”

She said nothing.

***

_ “Did you think I won’t figure it out?” _

_ “Of course, you would. You know your stuff.” _

_ “No. Not my stuff. Something far much worse.” _

_ “And what is it?” _

_ “You.” _

_ *** _

Maddie listened to the laughter in her head and realized that she may have never felt this much anger before.

Her fingers moved to pick up the damn thing and throw it away, but when she actually touched it… it was _warm_. It was warm and soft, and she didn’t want to let go.

How could it be so fucked up, she wondered.

She wanted to ask Phil, but then met his eyes and remembered.

He wouldn’t answer, would he? You didn’t answer to someone who was going to kill you. You didn’t bring them bloody blankets to keep warm. You didn’t do any of those things.

***

_ “So what did you do?” _

_ “I don’t know.” _

_ “What did she say then?” _

_ “Hope to make the blue still.” _

_ “And what did you do?” _

_ “I laughed.” _

***

_ “You see, Phil? It’s just one question that matters. What did you do?” _

_ “Is that a question?” _

_ “Can you answer that?” _

_ “I killed you. Then stuffed you into bag and threw it in the river. Was taken for questioning.” _

_ “Who was questioning you?” _

_ “Quit it, Maddie.” _

_ “Tell me, Phil. Or next time you will be the dead one. Who?” _

_ “You.” _

_ “Yeah, that’s right. Just how it should have been. Do you think any of them had the right to do it? Any of those bastards who would do the same thing as you did? At least, we did it in a fair way, don’t you think?” _

_ “It’s never about “why” you did it, it’s always about “what”. You should know that by now.” _

_ “Anyway – don’t you worry, because I’ll always be here to remind you.”  _

_ *** _

Her eyes hurt.

“No. Don’t do that. Be smart.”

“You just need to sleep for a bit. And this will keep you warm.”

Her hand grabbed something that was suspiciously like Phil’s shirt. She wanted to say that she had just been to sleep, but it didn’t feel like this at all.

Was it a nightmare? Then why didn’t she remember sleeping? Why did it seem as if she’d been awake for a couple of days by now?

Why did her mind keep sending her insane, illegibly written pages with motives of her own murder?

She needed it to matter, to mean something.

It didn’t take too long, though, before she realized that it was not possible.

_ Why _ never mattered. Not in her reality. Not now.

Everything was about _what_. What would she do? What moment would she choose?

What would her own questioning be like?

* wordplay, in southern dialects, "hope" - past tense of help, _helped_ is considered a recent innovation. 


	6. Questions to be Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, and the next one (which could be thought of as a second part) are based on 5 questions, This part has 3 of them, and each one introduces its own piece (dream - reality - dream, accordingly).

_How many questions can you answer before the whole story is told?_

The game is never written. It’s played. It wasn’t in those thin pieces of paper she was holding in her hand, but in her trembling voice forcing out the first sentence.

“Files that were never recovered? How many of them have you seen?”

His smile was ironic, but rather light and quick.

“None. They were gone before I could take a look.”

_Or something else._ Maddie thought, then nodded and tried to concentrate on the list before her.

“So was it closed?”

Phil’s eyes widened a bit and he cleared his throat.

“What was closed?”

Maddie looked at her fingers, feeling cool prickling sensation in them.

“The case.”

Phil smiled at her.

“That’s not the one you should be worrying about.”

She told herself she didn’t feel black ink under her fingers, didn’t want to scratch it away till the last drop, leave the room and never come here again. She didn’t.

_“Was. It. Closed?”_

Phil looked almost bored. And also there was his shirt. Something familiar about it.

Damn it. Maddie swallowed. For some bloody reason, it just had to be this very shirt he was wearing when they kissed for the first time.

“How was it?”

She made herself look up.

“Absolutely terrible.”

“I thought so too.”

She didn’t feel in control of what was showing on her face right now.

“Interrogation, Maddie. “

He licked his lips.

“Whose one is it?”

The ink got blurred and messy under her trembling fingers and she realized that she couldn’t answer this.

_Couldn’t answer._

***

_How many will remain in your memory?_

She woke up with a scream hidden in her lungs.

And then coughed – long enough for it to shake her whole body and make her want to vomit.

Hands on her dirty, oiled hair felt unnaturally gentle. They lingered on the back of her head for a while and then moved to her neck baring it and making it feel the warm touch.

Her throat made one last convulsive sound and went quiet.

The edge of the glass made her lips open, and her teeth got shot by a gush of icy cold water. She swallowed instinctively and her hand grabbed something that gave a low irritated sound she couldn’t bring herself to be afraid of.

Her eyelids were still heavy.

“What were you dreaming of?”

“Killing you.”

The answer was almost effortless. She didn’t even have to think – something angry and painful in her chest did it for her.

She didn’t see his eyes, didn’t hear tiny changes in his breathing.

Instead, she took a handful of his shirt and tugged on it. She liked to think that it was something out of her control, something she couldn’t resist.

But again, it was not always about _can_ , was it?

***

_How many will still hold meaning?_

“Are you having dreams?”

It didn’t even seem strange anymore that he was asking questions.

She closed the case and put it on the table.

She thought there was a smile on her face but she wasn’t so sure.

“It seems I’m having one now.”

Curious, almost encouraging expression on Phil’s face was no match for his unmoving hard eyes. She knew that it should be bothering her, but her mind was suspiciously silent.

“What kind is it?”

“A damn scary one, I suppose.”

“You _suppose_?”

“I don’t know where it’s heading yet.”

Phil got up and came closer. Light looked surprisingly attractive on his face.

Maddie couldn’t appeal to light, though. It was already dead in her eyes. She didn’t even know when it started. Or did she?

“It’s always about the beginning, Maddie. So remember and tell me.”

“Isn’t it the same thing?”

Her laughter was jittery, and dangerously contagious as she realized later, when the sound of Phil’s voice made it harder for her to breathe.

“I’m not a mind-reader, Maddie. You made me like this. It’s your dream. Your story.”

When she answered, her voice was muted.

“You know everything I’m going to say – which defeats the whole purpose.”

“ _Leave no stone unturned_ , they say. Isn’t that the purpose?”

Phil opened the folder, and Maddie knew that something wasn’t right.

“Have you read it?”

She should answer. _Answer_. The word got stuck in her head and nothing else seemed to make sense.

“ _Self-defense_. Nicely put.”

“Except it wasn’t.”

His smile was taunting and terrifying.

“Whose case is it, agent Pierce? Who is the suspect?”

Panic felt like hot, steaming liquid down her throat.

_Whose interrogation is it?_

She swallowed and looked into his eyes.

_Can you answer that?_

His eyes were still hard – so damn hard that she wanted to scream, make him say anything but those terrifying words, anything at all.

“No stones left unturned, is it? Well done, agent Rask.”

Tears in her eyes felt wrong, and when she blinked trying to hold them back, everything seemed even more real.

“Well done.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote about stone is taken from this resource: http://changingminds.org/techniques/interrogation/four_rules.htm


	7. Questions to be Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after exactly nine months of waiting this story is finally finished! For all those who've been reading and commenting - thank you so much for all the support and encouragement, it really helped me to get the inspiration back.

_Will this meaning be enough to create a new story?_

“Wake up! Wake up, now, Maddie!”

“Go away.”

Her voice is rough and husky from hours of silence

The room is silent too. She’s listening to uneven, jumpy noises of Phil’s breathing and for a moment – a very short one – it seems calming enough for her to forget.

She tugs on her blanket and covers her face. Darkness gets suffocating and unexpectedly cozy.

The taunting clinking in her mind gets quiet and she holds on it with everything she’s got.

She feels a light, hesitant movement, and irritation gives her a burst of energy; it sparkles and fades away when she meets his eyes.

She tries to remember where she hid the glass but nothing comes out. Did she even hide it?

It would have been such a good opportunity. Damn _wasted_ opportunity, that is.

The clinking starts again – and this time the blade doesn’t reflect her terrified face. It has its own color now. And it’s red.

_Whose case had it been? Who wrote it?_

She makes her lungs inhale but the air gets cut off halfway through.

“What is it?”

“You’re in pain.”

A small white pill in her palm looks oddly familiar but her memory doesn’t give her any images. Nothing but those nerve-racking blank pages she’s supposed to fill, nothing but her hazy, as if dried out writing. Was it even _her_ writing?

_It’s not even real. Why do you care?_

She brushes it off, but the next thing isn’t so easy to get rid of.

The list before her eyes is old and covered in hurried writing. At least, this time the writing _is_ her own – and that’s the only consolation she can think of.

For the first time in her life she wishes she didn’t know all this stuff, didn’t have all the symptoms memorized, didn’t have those dreadful links in her mind that push her to even stronger fears.

“Do you want to poison me?”

Phil gives her a cup with water in it. _A cup_.

“Those are safer, don’t you think?”

She doesn’t take it.

His eyes are still as hard as she remembers them.

“I thought you were the one planning my murder.”

A moment later, Maddie is listening to weak, cracking sounds of her own laughter.

“Was I only _one_?”

His smile is almost genuine but there is not even a hint of it in his eyes.

“None of them were enough, as you see.”

All it takes is exhale, it doesn’t even hurt her throat in the way she thought it would – and yet, she realizes that she’s never felt this exposed in her whole life.

She goes back to the half-soaked ugly pages with black streamlets of ink on them.

_Lost files. He was talking about some lost files._

_How would you like a case that no one has ever seen, one that never existed?_

Nightmares were always like this – no logic but something so much more convincing instead.

***

_“Why is it blurred?”_

_“I already told you – it’s not real. You ask and answer your own questions.”_

_“What is real then?”_

_“The cup in your hand. The one you want to prove your point with.”_

_“It doesn’t matter in the end, does it? Knife, glass or a cup – no one will care what you did it with.”_

_“You don’t need me to remind you. You know what counts, Maddie. Ask yourself this. Ask and answer.”_

***

Tears come in a rush and she closes her eyes. The cup falls on the floor, and the shattering breaks some painful knot inside her.

“I didn’t do it.”

She makes a fist and wonders if it would be possible to ever breathe again.

“I didn’t kill you.”

She doesn’t know how many times she repeats it but when she stops there is still no answer.

She looks up and realizes that they won’t go back anymore.

There is pain on his face. So much of it that she stops feeling her own for a moment.

She lifts the pillow, flinches when her hand touches the glass and hands it to Phil.

Pain is mixed with desperation now, and it melts her body into a weak, jelly-like mess she’s no longer able to fight.

Blank pages have never looked so attractive before, she thinks. She wants to fill them. She wants to see light reflecting on them, to memorize the way they’ll be getting old and thin, to press harder on the pen in her fingers and make lines bold and distinct – make them _mean_ something.

And when Phil disappears in another room to get her some water, her ankle gets freed of a circle of burning pain, and clinking that follows doesn’t make her scream in terror – only then she lets herself to forget, not finally, _never_ finally, but at least enough for her to breathe again, enough to cry.

***

_Will it be a truth or a lie?_

In her mind, truth was in small boxes all over the place. Lie was in the air, though. Unnoticed and intoxicating. Or so she thought.

It has been two and a half days since her days blended into her nights to never separate again. She couldn’t even console herself with knowing what is real and what’s not. Her lies weren’t plausible today. Her very mind wasn’t.

She drank her water and closed her eyes not to see a cup in her hand. He took it from her and the only thing she could think of was a short brush of his fingers.

_‘True story’. Who did even come up with this ridiculous expression? No story is true._

She stopped when she realized that her lips were moving and it were her noise-filled ears that didn’t let her hear the sound.

Phil looked up from his laptop and she couldn’t help but wince at the domesticity of it. They only lacked a pack of crisps. And maybe some soap to get rid of blood on her head. Well, they said a domestic life could get violent sometimes, couldn’t it?

She let her eyes linger on the nervous, hurried movements of his fingers on the keyboard.

He wasn’t meeting his eyes, and she wasn’t sure he wanted him to.

Her truth would be fighting him with everything she’s got, running away and never coming back. Her truth would be his blood on her hands and a terrible smell of burnt-out pages she could never read.

Her mind was still climbing its way through the fog. She didn’t see where it ended, she couldn’t as much as lift her head. She thought there was a sky out there, like in fairy-tales, but she couldn’t imagine anything but black-and-white pictures of what she used to be, just swaying there without any order in sight, getting dimmer and dimmer as the day went by until turning into ash on her trembling fingers. She could never stop them from trembling. They would grasp convulsively, scream in desperation – the scream so loud that her voice was just a whisper in comparison – and finally let go, starting all the madness once again.

“You didn’t kill me.”

The blue in his eyes was warm, unbearably so, but she felt like she was touching bricks of ice. They pierced her senses and jolted her awake without missing a single beat. Her shallow breaths would catch in her throat and then get pushed out again, and again, until the tight vacuum in her chest was completely gone, until she was ready for another kind of agony that didn’t take long to follow.

He was right. There was no murder yet. No consequences to pay, apart from those in their insanity-driven minds. She tried to get back to the beginning where there were the ‘good’ guys who solved crimes and the ‘bad’ guys who committed them, but there was no such thing as the ‘beginning’, not anymore. She only saw what followed, and it wasn’t the most evocative of sights.

Certainty was a luxury, and so was stability. Her world was whirling around without stopping even for a moment. But then she’d lift her tear-stained eyes to Phil’s and remember the feeling of rain drops on her face mixed with the light touches of his fingers. She’d get lost in the crazy confusion of it all, and even more overbearing tranquility that left no door for escape.

“Eat your dinner, Maddie.”

The jolt that went through her wasn’t one of terror, not this time, and even so, it was one of the most frightening things she’d ever experienced.

Phil lifted his eyes, as if mimicking her earlier motion.

Maddie took the steaming cup letting it burn her trembling fingers.

Peace. Safety. Would she ever feel that again? Would that merciless clinking erase everything she’d ever known about life?

She took a small sip and let it burn her throat raw.

Certainty. No thing has ever seemed so far, and yet… She lifted her eyes. The first droplets of rain hit the window with a dull sound.

His blue was still. She was sure of that.


End file.
